


Prayers and Scars

by cyprith



Series: Modern Magic AU [12]
Category: Maleficent (2014)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-01
Updated: 2014-07-01
Packaged: 2018-02-07 00:54:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1878864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyprith/pseuds/cyprith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere along the line, everything goes to hell. And Diaval doesn’t know how—doesn’t even have the first idea how to fix it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Prayers and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> bearholdingashark prompted: lion hearted girl
> 
> Something of a transitional chapter. Still not sure how I feel about it.

Somewhere along the line, everything goes to hell. And Diaval doesn’t know how—doesn’t even have the first idea how to fix it.

Doesn’t know if he _can_ fix it, the way Maleficent looks at him now. A week ago, he’d walk into her office and she’d smile. Or she’d roll her eyes and twitch her wings, mention _appropriate workplace attire._ Something to let him know she wasn’t impressed with his beautiful self, even on those days she watched him like she wanted to eat him up.

But now… now she just _looks_ at him. No warmth in her face, no twitch at the corner of her mouth. The ghosts in her eyes, Diaval’s not even sure she sees him.

He thinks she still sees Stefan LeRoi.

But he understands—he _does_ —so he doesn’t press.

Even as it devours him.

—

Still, back at his apartment and alone with his thoughts, Diaval feels like filth. And he knows better. She’s frightened and it has very little to do with him. But he _hates_ it. Hates that she’s hurting. Hates that he can’t _fix it._ Hates that someone fucking _dared—_

Teeth clenching on the thought, Diaval rattles uselessly around his apartment, looking for something, anything, a means to be _useful._ He itches down under his skin in a bad way. Feels his whole body like a bruise, tight and too hot, strung like a wire ready to break.

His eyes fall on the several sacks of flour sitting on his counter and he could, he _could_ bake something. Bread, maybe, and take his aggression out in a way that won’t get him arrested. But he feels useless, _stupid_.

What was he even thinking? _Baking_. Had he actually figured that he could charm Maleficent with a couple of fucking cakes? Or is this meant to _cure_ him? Meant to make him all better after years and years of constant fuckery? Like he can actually manage to function in the real world if he doesn’t have Maleficent holding his hand, practically fucking _dragging_ him out of the gutter.  

Sucking in a deep breath, Diaval sits down on the couch and tries not to think. He should call his sponsor, probably. Flittle said days like these were dangerous alone—and she knows her stuff, she’s been doing this sort of thing for years. But he can’t. Diaval rips his fingers through his hair, thinking about that god-awful hollow look in Maleficent’s eyes as she said _seven minutes,_ and he _can’t_.

He wants to climb out of himself, wants to turn his skin inside out, run his shadows through the shower, scour until he’s naught but bones and hope.  

He wants to make a few calls, cash in some ancient favors, arrange LeRoi a nice new pair of concrete loafers.

And _fuck_ , but days like this are better spent at work. Whatever Flittle said, he feels easier with Maleficent’s eyes on him. Because he knows—he _knows_ —she won’t let him break. She’ll smooth a hand over his cracks if he shatters, patch him together with a wish and spell.

Or she would have. But then… _seven minutes_ and her eyes so lost and cold.

Swallowing, Diaval stands, crosses to the bathroom. He grabs his razor from the edge of the sink. Knuckles white on the handle, he carves his runes again.

Like a prayer. Like a scar.

And it’s stupid. He’s an embarrassment, he knows. Can’t walk, can’t talk, can’t dress the part, can’t act a high class twat for her. But still, with his runes fresh and his hands steady, Diaval feels better. He may not be good for much, but he knows Maleficent, and he intends on looking after her.

Even if that means not looking much at all.   

—

Several weeks pass without much change. Diaval spends much of it miserable, walking on egg shells. Anymore, trying to steal a moment with Maleficent is like trying to catch pigeons in the car park.

Diaval used to do that a lot as a kid. You could walk up to ‘em, could even yell at ‘em, they wouldn’t move. But the second you put out a hand, the second you even _thought_ about touching a feather— _gone._

Maleficent has it down to an art. She leaves the room without ever moving. Just stares right through him, imagines him gone.

In any case, Diaval’s in a right foul mood. He glares at his email, twitchy and irritable. And he knows Maleficent is, too, judging by the way she’s snapped at him no less than _eighteen_ times today about truly meaningless _shite._ What she needs—what they _both_ need _—_ is a few hours together in a decent headwind.

But Diaval won’t ask. He knows she’d refuse. Knows that if he clears her schedule now and tells her to get her coat, she might do something worse than yell.

Well, fine. It isn’t like she doesn’t remember the way to Jenny’s house. Let her ask, if she wants it. Let her come to him.

Not that she will, he thinks and almost smiles. Stubborn, lion-hearted girl, she’ll sit in that office stewing in her own misery until her wings rot off.

And Diaval doesn’t know what to do about it. Doesn’t know how to help her without setting her demons howling.

She’d been so happy, though. That’s the worst of it. Hauling him around by the armpits and laughing—actually _laughing—_ so goddamn beautiful with the shadows gone from her eyes, she’d been a different woman. And after, lying in the grass together, he’d thought—

The way she looked at him…

He’d held so still, hoping with his whole body, not daring to breathe because one twitch, one _thought_ , and he’d scare her off. He’d wanted. Gods, had he _wanted._

But scare she had—most days he doesn’t even blame himself—and now they’re left with _this._ Misery and hurt and broken dreams.

Diaval’s email pings. Grateful for something to do, he opens it.

One look at the sender— _Leila LeRoi_ —and he deletes it.

For a long moment, Diaval stares at the screen, his body numb and vibrating. How dare she? Email them, email _Maleficent._  Married to that _fuck_. Knowing what he _did_ , knowing what he _fucking was—_

No. He won’t bring that on her. He won’t.

But ten minutes later, when the white rage fades, Diaval’s curiosity gets the better of him. With a glance at the office door—not that she’d know, not that she’d even _care_ —Diaval goes into the trash bin to read it properly.

—

To: AdminAssist1@MoorInc.com

From: Leila_LeRoi@outerlook.com

Subject: Schedule A Meeting?

Mr. Diaval,

I’m sorry to contact you this way. I know this is something of a breach of etiquette, being that this account isn’t open for queries from the general public, but I very much need a favor. My sister believed you could help.

Four years ago, when my daughter was born, Maleficent gave her a blessing. Part of this blessing was that no spell could ever affect her and that, as a consequence, she’d see all things truly. A lovely blessing and one I’m eternally grateful for.

However, Stefan was and is quite upset by it. He’s spent a great deal of time and money trying to remove the blessing. So far he’s been unsuccessful, thankfully, and given the nature of our recent divorce, he won’t have much opportunity to continue.

But as time goes on and Aurora grows older, I can’t help but notice certain differences between her and the others of her age group. It’s not that she’s falling behind—she’s very bright and always curious. I suppose the only real way to put it is that she’s _changing_.

Perhaps it’s nothing. I could be jumping at shadows. But more and more as she grows older, Aurora doesn’t seem quite _human_. Her facial structure is different. She’s faster, more coordinated than the other four year olds. Stefan refuses to speak of it, but I’ve known him long enough (and spoken to enough of his mistresses) to know when he’s lying.

If at all possible, could I meet with Maleficent? The more I think about the wording of her blessing, the more I believe she expected this. And I know she’s very busy, but I don’t know anyone else who could help us. I don’t even know where to begin to look.

Hoping to hear from you,

Leila Adaline

—

For a long while, Diaval stares at the screen, a rock in his chest.

And he knows Maleficent doesn’t want to see it. He _knows._ But here sits a wee fluff of a girl, trapped in the same net LeRoi had tried to get on her.

To be forced to pass for _human?_ To not know your own blood? To never fit in, to never know why you look the way you do, why you can do the things you’ve done…

No. Diaval can’t leave it. He wishes he could.

Steeling himself, he forwards the email up.


End file.
